


Iterative and Immaculate

by IcyKali



Series: Dayoun Timeline [2]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Blood and Violence, Dayoun is not the abusive relationship, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fix-It of Sorts, Flashbacks, Flirting, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Grooming, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Psychological Horror, Self-Harm, Slavery, many headcanons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:34:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28307598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IcyKali/pseuds/IcyKali
Summary: Weyoun is on a diplomatic mission to Deep Space Nine on the brink of war when he is accosted by a Lethean and psychically assaulted. Caged within his own mind, Weyoun is forced to face his many long-unacknowledged, deep scars and confront himself.
Relationships: Damar & Weyoun (Star Trek), Damar/Weyoun (Star Trek)
Series: Dayoun Timeline [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2116638
Comments: 5
Kudos: 38
Collections: Star Trek: Just in Time Fest





	Iterative and Immaculate

**Author's Note:**

> When I found the Star Trek: Just in Time Fest I knew I wanted to write a fanfiction exploring both how Weyoun perceives time and his history with the Founder Leader. This fic delves into the layers upon layers of trauma he must have undergone. Note that this is full of headcanons and is not entirely canon-compliant. These headcanons are shared between my other fics featuring the Dominion (for instance, I write Weyoun as having had many more clones than the numbered ones from the show). 
> 
> Again, Jeffrey Combs's and Casey Biggs's fervent shipping of their characters led to my shipping Dayoun as well, but I almost considered tagging this fic as gen because while I think the shipping thread should be obvious from the perspective of Cardassian courtship, it probably looks very subtle otherwise!

The non-aggression treaty with Bajor that Weyoun had wanted to secure was inevitably going to be signed. Partitioning the Federation's potential allies was like clockwork, and Weyoun had assisted the Dominion’s dismantling more ancient empires in the past. However, even though his negotiations with Kai Winn were proceeding smoothly, Gul Dukat’s grandstanding had alerted Deep Space Nine to the Founder Leader’s plans. Fortunately, it was not a great loss—it helped keep Weyoun’s work out of the public eye—and he was excited to be making one more diplomatic visit to the station. It had such a diverse array of attractions! He watched the lights flicker and form patterns through the glass dome of the dabo wheel as it beeped to life. Since the Founder was confident about his progress, he had been free to scream “Dabo!” until his throat was sore. With this latest win, he simply chuckled at the little show. 

He heard Damar walk over to him. “You scared away the dabo girls,” Damar said. “I didn't know you were physically capable of making noises like that.”

Weyoun cocked his head to the side, enough to see Damar in his periphery but not so much that he could not watch the colorful ring of lights flare again. “I think they left because they realized I don't need to be encouraged to play,” he said. “You know, their title 'dabo girls' sounds quite belittling. Tell me, why don’t there seem to be any dabo boys?” He knew why, but if he was going to spend his day having as much fun as possible, he needed to include pushing Damar out of his comfort zone on the itinerary. 

“You know why. It’s a relic, since it was mostly male Cardassians here during the Occupation,” he said in a hushed tone, not wanting any Bajorans to overhear. 

“And why is that, Damar?” Once the wheel ceased its display, Weyoun turned to look at him fully, his winnings pressed against him as he leaned back. 

Damar’s usual frown deepened as he presumably thought back to the famines that had left Cardassia desolate, and Weyoun wondered if he had gone too far. As if Weyoun had not felt guilty enough already for being secretly excited to be on the brink of war with the Federation—his god-given job was to be diplomatic and affable, not a warmonger. But Damar chose not to share his concerns for his people’s future. Instead, he sipped his drink and said, “Dukat was prefect. Plus, Quark wouldn’t want to pay any additional employees.” 

Weyoun gave a nod of appreciation to acknowledge the way Damar pushed past the insensitive misstep. “Of course. Certainly not now that I’ve bankrupted him.” Weyoun took a step to the side and gestured to the proud pile of glimmering strips of latinum sitting atop the wheel. 

Damar choked on his drink. “That’s—an offense to statistics!” How like Damar to think in numbers. “These machines are rigged to make that impossible!”

“It’s not impossible if you recognize how it’s rigged and exploit it.” Weyoun grinned. “Now, am I correct in assuming the meeting isn’t close to finished?”

“Dukat’s still showboating in front of Captain Sisko, yes. Why?” 

“Then I have time to transport these back to my quarters.” He gathered up the strips, enjoying the tiny ringing sounds they made as they clattered together. “Unless… your uniform has pockets and mine does not. If you carry them back for me I’ll part with five strips in exchange for the labor.” Weyoun knew Jem’Hadar might break the treasured items in his quarters if he ordered them to do it. 

“Try harder to insult me, would you?” Damar finished off his drink. “What are you even planning to buy with those?”

Weyoun grimaced. “I’m not planning to buy anything with them, Damar. They’re to study.” 

“You’re going to study a mountain of identical strips of latinum?”

“To someone like you they must appear identical, but I assure you they’re not. Each strip has been touched by who knows how many different individuals over the years, developing unique histories.” He pulled his prizes closer, careful not to let any of them slip away. “Such a shame that you’re not capable of grasping the wonder of it all.” 

“I’m capable of grasping that I need another drink. Good luck with carrying those.” With that, Damar made his way through the crowd to head back to the bar. 

Due to Weyoun’s earlier shouting, many patrons did give him a wide berth as he made his way to the nearest spiral staircase. Before he could ascend them, he felt a clawed hand dig into his shoulder and pull him into the shadows. Because this sort of thing was a regular occurence, Weyoun did not even drop his latinum at the sensation. He turned to see his soon-to-be assailant and looked up into the gnarled face of a species he was unfamiliar with. “Yes? If you have questions about the Dominion, I would be the one to ask,” he said. “May I ask what species you are? I don’t think I’ve met your people.” It was his job to acquire all the intelligence possible before being murdered, which was only appropriate considering the official reason he was visiting the station was for intelligence-gathering purposes. After all, war was inevitable. 

“I know what you did to our Klingon allies,” the alien said in a deep, rumbly voice, leaning into Weyoun’s personal space. “I am a Lethean.” It sounded like a threat. 

Weyoun suppressed the urge to sigh. Perhaps this was a punishment for shirking his duty to reign in Dukat. “A Lethean. How interesting. I’d love to learn more about you,” he lied. “But I’m not sure I understand what you mean by—”

The Lethean grabbed his head and pulled him up, making him stare into red eyes. Weyoun went quiet and limp, awaiting a killing blow. To his surprise, arcs of electricity leaped between the Lethean’s palms and Weyoun’s skull and caused his brain to burn as if pure poison had been injected into it. Behind his eyes he thought he saw flashbacks to earlier days, ancient memories welling up to the forefront of his mind for the first time in centuries. The Lethean reeled back and dropped him unceremoniously to the floor, and the noise of the latinum strips falling around his paralyzed body sounded like a vesper bell. 

* * *

Weyoun lay on dampened, hard ground. From every direction came the sound of moisture dripping from leafage and the smell of damp soil. Upon pushing himself up and opening his eyes, even with his poor eyesight he knew where he was—the homeworld of the Founders. Orienting himself, he realized he was standing in the middle of the garden the gods themselves visited in order to practice their shapeshifting. But many of the obelisks on the perimeter were absent and the ancient trees also seemed to be in different positions, despite the landscape being familiar overall. And where were the lanterns embedded throughout the garden, many of which had been installed by his own hands? It was sunset, the sky that sharp orange color that the Founder Leader favored. Despite the Vorta’s lack of aesthetic appreciation, Weyoun used to wonder if he ought to consider that orange his favorite color if it was hers.

A rustle from behind Weyoun alerted him to a presence. Spinning around, he heard the unmistakable sound of a Founder changing form before he saw her, the Founder Leader, glistening with the red sun behind her. She looked like molten metal as she took her shape—and then Weyoun understood where he was. Not in space, but in time. For she was in a form similar to that of a Vorta, but with stern blue eyes and an orange cast, with a more detailed, bold uniform. This was how she often appeared to the Vorta and Jem’Hadar in an early period, back when the progenitor of the Weyoun line was created. This was an era when the Founders had paused their explorations and took the time to further perfect their cloning and hatching facilities. Weyoun smiled as the Founder parted the foliage as she came near—this was a lovely time to be dreaming about. It was certainly more pleasant than his usual dreams about becoming lost on his way to the office and being rightfully chastised for his incompetence. 

“Exploring again, Weyoun? My, you are inquisitive.” The Founder raised her chin. “You’re always excited during the Vorta’s parties, and yet here you are, equally eager to be alone with yourself,” she mused. 

All Vorta, even immediately following creation, knew to bow and say, “You grace me with your presence,” and so he did. Although Jem’Hadar underwent an aging process, Vorta bodies were let out of the cloning chambers in adult form. However, Weyoun still looked back on this period of his life with what he later learned was nostalgia. He may have been born into adulthood, but as the Founders explained, genetic engineering could never fully replace lived experience. For that reason, Weyoun went through this stage in which every sensation was fresh and time moved slowly. “Does this please you, Founder?” Weyoun remembered what he had said in answer. 

“Certainly. Exploration is a core value of the Dominion.” Her upturned mouth reminded Weyoun of the arcs of many of the ferns throughout the garden. “Come, sit and tell me of your findings.” She had led Weyoun to one of the wide stone steps and sat down as Weyoun kneeled before her. 

Weyoun’s progenitor was still so overwhelmed by the waves of new sensory information his body was taking in every day, and he kept rubbing the stone’s smooth surface. “First I played with the foliage, and each day I’ve been watching leaves unfurling and how many of them orient themselves toward the sunlight. Then I speculated—if I could hear moisture dripping from the foliage, perhaps I could lie down and listen to the movement of water within the ground as well, or hear the roots of the plants breaking through the soil—and I discovered remarkable tiny creatures, each no larger than one of my fingers, who were pulling themselves along with undulating—”

“I’ve heard enough for now. Your interest in the world around you will make you an excellent diplomat. You may even exceed the skills of your peers… I will have to monitor your growth for emergent qualities.” The Founder’s expression was contemplative, and in the sunset her hair looked like wisps of flame. She reached out and pulled at a frond, presenting it to Weyoun. “When you observe solid things, what emotions do you feel?” 

“It’s exciting!” Weyoun clapped his hands. 

“Yes, it is exciting to catalogue their traits,” the Founder said, “and what do you feel _for_ them?” 

“I’m… not entirely sure I understand your question, Founder.” He bowed his head in supplication. 

“Of course you don’t understand. This is a chance for me to educate you.” She tore off part of the frond and placed it on Weyoun’s lap. “These solid entities intrigue you, and as you learn more about them, you grow to love them even though they’re nothing like yourself. You are able to develop this love for them because we Founders engineered and improved your people, and now your job is to bring other solids into the fold of the Dominion.” She picked the plant matter back up and threw it away from the steps. “But until they join us and lose the freedom they selfishly cling to, they will never love you back, Weyoun. Without our compassionate supervision, solids always come to despise what they don’t understand. They hate my people for what we are because we’re nothing akin to them, and they hate you as well because you serve us. They’ll always hate you until you help us break them of their limited perspectives.”

“Thank you for taking the time to share this wisdom with me. I understand.” And he did understand. Though back then the only hatred he knew was the hatred solids developed for shapeshifters—and he only knew of this hatred from Vorta stories—and the only love he knew was the love between the Founders and their servants, but this was enough. Now he was aware of innumerable permutations of the two emotions, but this hate and this love still reigned supreme. Hatred for the Founders was the most terrible hatred of all, for the Founders were everloving gods, and the love between the Founders and their servants was the most beautiful love of all for the same reason. 

The Founder shifted through a patch of soil and when she next showed Weyoun her palm, she was holding one of the tiny arthropods he had discovered. “Let me give you an example, because experience is a great teacher.” She placed the creature into Weyoun’s hands, its legs tickling him. The Founder continued, “I can see joy and love in your expression, but then…” she trailed off. 

Where it touched Weyoun’s skin, it left a trail of faintly burning sensations. “Is this toxic?” Weyoun asked. His eyes widened. “Founder, what about your hands?” 

“It is highly toxic, but there’s no need to worry for me. We shapeshifters can reject toxins at will. However, despite your people’s resistance to poisons, you’re still fragile.” She gestured to the plants. “Release the solid back to its life of _freedom_ ,” she spoke the word as if it were a curse, “but remember how it repaid your love by bringing pain.” 

When he obeyed and watched it slither away, he remembered feeling both blessed by the Founder’s teachings and a new awareness of a hollowness within him. He did not reciprocate any hatred in that moment, and he was unsure as to the reason why. Many decades later, when he learned the Founders had ordered these arthropods be eradicated in order to further secure the comfort of the Great Link, Weyoun realized there was nothing left to hate. 

“Now, it is time for me to resume my own studies.” The Founder returned to her liquid state and propelled herself over the nearest hill, glinting in the diminishing light. 

When Weyoun did not wake, he gazed up at the empty space she used to inhabit before standing up and ascending the steps in the direction of the Great Link. It was unparalleled in its wonder, and Weyoun was resolved to use this opportunity to observe it up close once again, if only in his mind. A marked difference from his usual short and stressful dreams. He drifted to the shoreline, following the rock formations that jutted out of the ground and pointed the way there. Even though it was his destination and his dream, he dared not behold the Great Link from any closer than a few meters’ distance away. In the dim surroundings he could hardly see the Founders as they phased into each other, but he could hear their undulations. To his confusion a group of Founders swirled rapidly around each other directly in front of him, flickering with color as they did so, until they formed a sort of window into a scene. It was as if the Link were a scrying pool. When he picked up the sound of voice emanating from the image that used his name, he decided it was permissible to walk up to it.

Weyoun’s confusion mounted as he saw the blurry yet recognizable face of Doctor Bashir surrounded by bright light, and the two of them somehow looked down at each other simultaneously. “The psychic trauma caused by Lethean attacks is nearly always fatal, but when I was assaulted by one in this manner I made a full recovery,” said Bashir. “Based on Weyoun’s brain waves and REM, it may be possible that his condition won’t prove fatal, either, but I can make no promises considering how devastating this usually is to the mind. For now, my recommendation is to keep his body comfortable and to speak to him periodically. I was able to catch glimpses of the waking world as I was figuring out how to resist the damage the Lethean that attacked me had done…” 

How could he have forgotten the attack and believed himself to be merely dreaming? The Vorta were designed with built-in psionic resistance that ought to have prevented his entering shock. There was his body, lying uselessly in the Infirmary, while the Founder would certainly be growing impatient for him to return to his duties. 

A vague awareness of other voices continuing the conversation got his attention. He could not discern the figures by sight, but he could by their voices, and with each of his ears he overheard the discussion split into two seperate ones. 

“What is the state of the assailant, Doctor?” Captain Sisko asked. 

“Unstable, I’m afraid. She’s in far worse shape than Weyoun. Whatever she saw in his head must have left her traumatized as well,” Bashir said. Apparently, the psionic resistances had not failed—but then why was Weyoun still unconscious? “Captain, in my professional opinion, I don’t think we can return Weyoun to Dominion custody. I suspect they’re going to have him executed, citing incompetence.”

“Isn’t each Weyoun part of one long line of clones? And he’s certainly made mistakes on the job before, and he’s always re-emerged in one piece.” Sisko said. 

Weyoun scowled, for there was no need to be diplomatic at this point. 

“Yes, but this particular clone is my patient, and we can’t risk buying into the Dominion’s attempts to make the Vorta or Jem’Hadar appear expendable,” Bashir said, putting the characteristic ignorance of solids on display. 

Sisko heaved a sigh. “I don’t like it any more than you do, Doctor, but we’re on the verge of war. We can’t risk a diplomatic incident.” 

Meanwhile, Dukat, on the other side of the Infirmary, said, “In my eyes, this issue has an easy solution. We’ll bring back this body of Weyoun’s, dispose of it, and a healthy replacement will soon be cloned.” 

“With all due respect, Sir, won’t the Founder be furious and consider this a waste of resources?” Damar asked. 

“I don’t think so. That dying Lethean is entirely at fault, and once a new Weyoun is brought in she and everyone here can forget the incident.” After a pause, Dukat added, “Is there anything else on your mind?”

“Sir, Doctor Bashir said this was psychological damage. If all of Weyoun’s clones share memories—somehow—I doubt cloning a new body is going to fix things.” Unfortunately, Damar was right. It was Weyoun’s responsibility to break himself out of this mental cage. “I believe we should consult the Founder first.” 

“How cautious of you!” Dukat exclaimed. “To think I believed you’d relish the opportunity to murder a Weyoun. But very well, I suppose we should prepare to leave the station.” 

“What about the Lethean, Sir? What time is the execution scheduled for?” 

“Oh, there’s no need to kill her, Damar. We wouldn’t want a diplomatic incident.” 

Weyoun paced in tight circles on the shore as night fell. If he could see reality, why was he not waking up? It went against his reverence for the Founders and his better judgment, but eventually he made himself stop and reach down into the Great Link. After all, it was necessary to wake and resume assisting the actual Founders, even if it meant touching a version of the Founders he had constructed in his mind. But the Great Link merely rippled and repelled his fingers, and as it pushed him away it surged upward, destroying his ability to peer into the waking world. The gelatinous mass separated out and took the form of the Founder Leader—in her present form, which she had based on an amalgamation of Odo and Major Kira. 

Weyoun scurried back until he was a respectful distance away. Automatically he bowed to her, even though he knew she was not truly before him. Nevertheless, he hoped some of her actual wisdom might be reflected by this manifestation of her. “Why am I struggling to shake this slumber?” 

“Why indeed,” she said. There was something off about her face—her smile was too wide and far less thin than usual. “Weyoun, I’m afraid you haven’t left because you don’t want to leave.”

“But I live only to serve you, and I can’t carry out your orders in this state.” Weyoun’s brows furrowed for a moment before he ended up smiling back at her, pleased with himself. “You don’t belong here. You must be the persona of the Lethean, or a representation of the injury she caused me.” He pointed to the dark horizon. “You’re utterly transparent and I expect _you_ to leave.” 

She blinked. Her shoulders sagged slightly and she looked down at herself. “My hope that you would be more willing to listen to me if I assumed this form was unfounded, I see. Very well, I’ll admit that I ought to have been more honest. Here.” Her body changed, but not through shapeshifting as a Founder’s would. Instead, her image faded into that of Weyoun himself, skin ghostly pale in the darkness. She raised a hand. “Before you protest, let me say my piece. The Lethean barely scratched your mind. In fact, I believe she helped you, both of us! She gave you an opportunity to commune with yourself, and you took it. I’m you, and you brought me to the surface.” 

He chuckled. “You really expect me to believe you,” he mused, feigning surprise. “If only you had put together a psychographic analysis to study before assaulting me, this performance of yours might have withstood more scrutiny… though I doubt it.” He shook his head, continuing to smile.

She crossed her arms over his chest, imitating his body language. “Tell me, would the Vorta’s ability to withstand psychic invasion be enough to do more than stun an attacker? Would it traumatize a Lethean the way yours did? No. Your psyche has been a minefield for ages, Weyoun, and you know it. We both do.”

“Is that so? Excellent!” He intertwined his fingers. “How fortunate for the Founders!” His face fell. “Now, I must wake.”

The Lethean assessed him with wide eyes brimming with false sympathy. “I brought you to this memory of yours hoping you’d see it for what it was, but it appears my trust was misplaced. That being said, I still care. I’ll have to show you other moments of your development to help you clear the fog you’ve hidden in since the progenitor of your line.” As she closed her eyes the colors and sounds of the landscape swirled together and Weyoun lost himself in space and time. 

His blurry vision made it difficult to discern precisely where and when he ended up, but he could hear the bustle of a marketplace in the distance, and he was standing in a cobblestone alleyway while staring at a gem-encrusted mosaic. The mosaic depicted blob-shaped, alien figures in silhouette, with curving colored lines running between them. Weyoun wanted to squint at the artwork, but he had more important matters to confront. “I imagine you’re eager to explain the significance of this,” he said. His voice sounded different. 

As expected, the Lethean, still the spitting image of himself, walked up to him from the market and into the shade of the alley. “A surprise that you don’t remember. This was such a formative experience.” 

“Was it.” Weyoun was about to put his hands behind his back when he noticed the curvature of his body had been changed—he was female in this memory, or rather in this earlier time _she_ was female, because all Vorta were expected to take on whatever gender the majority of foreign dignitaries assumed them to be. This detail dated the memory to before the Dominion had decided to embrace Cardassian space as part of its empire, because Weyoun’s most recent clones had all been male in order to fit the Cardassians’ perception of politics being a masculine pursuit while careers in the sciences were feminine pursuits. 

“That’s right, in fact this was a very long time ago, one of your first diplomatic missions as an ambassador to the Dominion.” The Lethean faded from view, like dispersing mist. “I’ll leave you alone with your memory for a while.”

A shadow enveloped Weyoun, and framed by the alley’s walls was a tentacled, gelatinous mass. Weyoun recognized the species from the gurgling noise its pseudopods made as it approached. They were mute aliens who communicated by swaying their tentacles, yet who could comprehend vocalizations made by other species. Their defining quality, as the Founder had explained to Weyoun, was that they could gaze between two individuals and read the interpersonal relationship between them as if it were a text, following the threads of their history back through time as if the dynamic were a tapestry. It had been Weyoun’s task to meet with the highest-ranked dignitary, the one who was now in the alley of his memory, and determine if their race could be shaped into Dominion spies. 

“What did you glean from your study of this work?” The dignitary signed with their tentacles. 

“It… must have taken many days for your craftspeople to bring it to life, as it were,” Weyoun murmured, more to himself than to his mind’s record of this alien, as he remembered what he had experienced on that day. He did not have to look up to remember the words of the conversation. 

“Yes. What about the story?” 

In the past, Weyoun had answered, “I’m afraid the plot remains obscure to me, due to the differing senses of our peoples, no doubt. That being said, I am eagerly awaiting your personal interpretation.”

And the alien had gestured to the figures and colors, recounting the story of a dangerous creature that fed off the emotional energy of others. How it ensnared various individuals in bonds of slavery in which people gave all they had to give and more and it kept leeching off them, until this monster was left alone and its slaves crumbled. This emotional bondage was represented by colored lines, and each hue held significance that Weyoun could not begin to comprehend. At the conclusion of the story, the broken bodies and minds of the various victims were represented by scattered black tesserae. 

The Lethean appeared on the other side of Weyoun. She leaned in close. “And as they told you the tale, you couldn’t help but recall how these aliens flinched and ran the other way whenever they caught a glimpse of the relationship between you and the Founder Leader when she accompanied you at the landing site.” 

Weyoun rolled his eyes and showed her his palm, indicating that she ought to keep her distance. “Yes, and I realized these aliens were too easily dazzled by the relationship between god and subject to make proper spies.”

She barked out a laugh. “And that’s why you kept staring at photographs of this world’s other mosaic narratives, long after the Founders’ attention drifted from this species? You know the Founders never intended for the Vorta to have a sense of aesthetics in the first place, and yet ever since this early mission of yours, you’ve kept diving into the subject!” 

“My people have no sense of aesthetics precisely because the Founders didn’t want my people to end up crippled by it as these aliens were. This journey helped illustrate the gods’ foresight,” Weyoun explained. As the Founder Leader told him after this experience, beauty often leads solids astray. “But that doesn’t mean my inability to judge art never makes my job difficult. In fact, the Founder has praised my attempts to find touchstones with the cultures I interact with—attempts including my continual forays into aesthetics.”

The Lethean looked askance, clearly exasperated. Weyoun smiled and glanced back at the mosaic, taking the brief respite to once again wonder if it was beautiful. As his eyes followed the lines of the illustration, he found himself wondering what the species who created it would sense in the air between himself and Damar. He had not heard news of the species dying out, so perhaps he could satisfy this whim of his one day. Oddly, as he wondered about the text or tapestry of this recently-formed dynamic, Weyoun noticed his face was warming up, until it was hotter than the air temperature of this memory. 

No longer frustrated, the Lethean was smirking at him. 

“What about my expression amuses you?” Weyoun asked.

“You tell me.”

“I have no reason to tell you anything.” He turned away from her and back to the mosaic. As he kept focusing on the tesserae and their sharp edges, they glowed not with the light of the sun, but with something colder. Colors ran together until they formed another glimpse into the outside world.

He heard the Lethean walk away. “As a gesture of good will, I’ll allow you to listen in,” she said.

With his face pressed up against the vision Weyoun recognized the unnatural glow and the pulsating hum that came with it as the interior of a cloning chamber, meaning his body was suspended in artificial amniotic fluid. He could almost smell the antiseptic of the warship’s laboratory. When he picked up the sound of the Founder’s voice, he nearly weathered a paroxysm. “It’s true. Activating a new clone would have no impact on Weyoun’s condition, unless I were to completely erase his memory.” Each time she took a step, the sound of her footfalls reverberated throughout the liquid. “These Vorta can be a liability, whereas the Jem’Hadar never live long enough to develop these problems. They barely even have psyches—they don't require them! But the Vorta need the experience of years’ worth of memories to become suitable diplomats. And then they develop these weaknesses… how embarrassing to see the greatest specimen develop them as well. I can’t help but feel somewhat culpable. I understand the inherent weakness of solids, and I shouldn’t have trusted Weyoun to be immune.” 

As she fell into her habit of making a litany of disparaging remarks, Weyoun’s face flooded with heat once again. But this time, it was a feverish flush paired with the sensation of his innards tightening until he had to suppress the urge to shake. He was used to quivering in order to feign sorrow and garner sympathy, and it gave him an empowering rush. Yet this impulse was unsettlingly outside his control, as if he were falling ill. 

It was a relief when he saw and heard Damar walk stiffly in front of the chamber. Weyoun had memorized the way he moved—dutifully yet miserably—which encapsulated his very being. Damar’s gaze darted to Weyoun’s face but his expression was too unfocused to gauge. “Was there anything else you needed, Founder?” Damar asked her. Weyoun could see he did not have any kanar at hand—he knew the proper amount of fear and respect to show in her presence. 

“Yes, in your report, you mentioned the doctor’s claim that speaking to Weyoun’s body might cause him to wake,” she said. “However, I’ve spent all the time I’m capable of speaking to it and monitoring his vital signs. Did Bashir give any estimates for how long he must be spoken to?” 

“No, he didn’t. He said these cases are nearly always fatal, and…” Damar’s voice faded out as Weyoun’s sight swam with a rush of colors. Weyoun backed from the alley wall and found it and the mosaic missing, replaced by a smear. He felt as if he had been rapidly spun like a top and suddenly let go. By shutting his eyes and singling out an ever-present low buzz he adjusted to his new surroundings. Or rather, his old surroundings, because he recognized the dull yellow curving walls with their arced panelling and the sterile scent in the cold moist air. Together with the buzz they characterized the atmosphere of the Dominion’s battlecruisers many centuries past. The lights were turned up high, as they always kept them before welcoming Cardassians into the fold. Weyoun put his hand against the wall, feeling the ship humming against his splayed fingers—the marked shift in lighting was not the only recent change that had made time appear to speed up as of late, he realized. In fact, Weyoun had been more tuned-in to the passage of time in the past couple of years than he had in the last thousand. He was feeling more like the Weyoun progenitor than ever before. He told himself it must have been due to the discovery of the Federation and their exploration of the Alpha Quadrant.

“I must admit, this is beginning to feel like an exercise in futility,” said the Lethean. She leaned against the wall in front of him. “You’re letting me down. I thought even someone as deluded as you would listen to the Founder’s rant and understand she has no regard for you.”

Weyoun turned his head slowly to face her. “The Founder has every right to be frustrated by my weaknesses,” he said in a low tone, resisting the urge to snap at her. It was still easier to stop himself from shouting now than it was whenever he was facing the incompetence of Dukat, which was a comfort. “And her vigil actually demonstrates that she considers me a highly valued servant, Lethean.” 

“She essentially said, guiltlessly and in front of Damar I might add, that she had wasted enough time on you!” 

“And? That is also entirely her right.” Weyoun put his arms behind his back and raised his chin. “If I find this time spent with you to be a waste, I can’t even imagine how pointless it would be to a god.” 

The Lethean mimed pondering a dilemma. “If her callous treatment of you in the present isn’t enough to convince you that you’re _nothing_ ,” she projected the voice she had stolen from him as she spoke the word, “I’ll have to dredge up another memory of her cruelty from your past!” She did not share his reservations about shouting. 

“As if my being here on this ancient ship hadn’t already alerted me to your plan,” Weyoun said to himself, for she had already disappeared.  
  
In the Lethean’s place stood an unmarked door. Weyoun reached out to place his hand on the old-fashioned access panel, but reconsidered. Playing this fruitless game would only prolong Weyoun’s unconscious state and, more importantly, the Founder’s restlessness. He spun on his heel and walked away, going around the bend, only to end up at the same door. Two options remained—either he could give in to his admittedly boiling curiosity and enter, or he could sit outside and wait, hoping for his mind to repair itself and annihilate the Lethean’s persona. Careful deliberation was Weyoun’s unwavering core, but what if it failed him in this instance? His mind might collapse and fall to ruin around him if he passed up this chance to push through. 

Using his clearance, he made the door slide open. Even though the details of the room were indistinct as a reflection of a distant landscape in trembling water and all he could hear was the dampened buzzing of the ship’s mechanisms, he did not need sharp eyes to recognize the scene. It must have been the residual sparks of the psychic invasion he had faced, because his head felt shot through with electricity and his neck throbbed with anxiety. These had been Weyoun’s own quarters long ago, after the diplomatic missions had become periodic as clockwork, and the research he poured over preceding each disembarking ran together, like the shared identities of the next clone in his line every time one of his bodies was killed. Only one thing in his endless existence marked the passage of time—it was not the expansion of the Dominion, for when Weyoun looked out at the stars, it was the empty space he found himself focusing on. In fact, when he was new, he had been filled with shame to know he had difficulty comprehending the Founders’ accomplishments when he himself was being continuously sent away to the next destination and rarely ever ordered to look back. No, what helped remind him of the continuity of his purpose was the fact that he made it a point to gather curios from every culture he interacted with as part of his position. His little treasures—he brought them back to the trove in his quarters and lay them out, ready to devote his off-hours to study. He used to beam with pride whenever he stepped into these quarters. In fact, he would often see his neat piles of antiquities and remember that evening he had shared with the Founder on her homeworld—the evening he had relieved earlier—and smile as he recalled how impressed she had been with his inquisitiveness. 

But then came the sea change. His quarters were barren and bereft of his collection. Puppeteered by an unseen force, Weyoun reenacted his frantic scouring of the room. Everything he had meticulously arranged on the floor was missing, from the most vast textile to the smallest earring. Nothing but the books devoted to the culture of the planet he would be visiting next remained. The call he made to the Jem’Hadar squadron reporting a burglary sped by, but without his collection to occupy him, the wait amidst the emptiness was excruciatingly slow. He tried lying down on his mattress, stiff and corpselike, in order to let the mechanical hum carry him, but no matter where he placed his hands ghosts of the textures of all he had lost kept leading him astray.

He had been about to thrash when he heard the sliding of the door. Pushing himself out of bed, he was astounded to see the Founder herself gracing his quarters with her presence. “Founder, you honor me, but I assure you it was unnecessary to concern yourself with this burglary—” He thought the words were correct at the time, in spite of his shaky breaths. 

She cut him off, as he deserved for his impudence. “I decide what to deem unnecessary, Weyoun.” Glaring at him, she said, “Nothing was stolen from you, and I personally informed the Jem’Hadar to refrain from responding to your orders.” 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand?” He regarded her with an incline of the head, waiting for her to judge whether or not he was worthy of clarity. 

“I removed the trash you had strewn about this room.”

Weyoun stood bolt upright. “I’m afraid… I don’t understand,” he said again. He wanted to move and break away from this—the Founder had already punished him as she saw fit, why should the Lethean make him suffer through it once more?—but he was frozen to the spot. 

Her features softened and he might have altered her eyes to better catch the light as she stalked close. “Many of those objects were broken. Several of the cultures you took them from are dead. What could you have been thinking?” Weyoun heard the offense in her tone at having to ask. She often complained about the inefficient nature of all communication outside of linking.

“I-I thought studying these items, in their brokenness, might increase my ability to build a bridge between the Dominion and other cultures,” he choked out. “I meant no disrespect.” 

“No, of course you didn’t, and yet you’re lying,” the Founder said. Before he could protest, she pushed his chin up, preventing him from looking down in shame. “You loved every single one of those things and spent your time playing with them, not studying them.” 

“I don’t understand.” Why had she asked him to explain himself when she already knew his innermost thoughts was the question pulsing through him. In retrospect, he understood she had been testing him by observing his reaction to being confronted, but at the time he had been too far gone to realize it. 

She released his chin and wiped her hand on her uniform, as if he was the trash and she needed to purify her skin after touching him. And yet she told him, “Weyoun, you are the only solid I’ve ever trusted. Everything I’ve ever taught you, you’ve put into practice. This is another lesson.” She motioned to the floor where his treasures used to lie. “Not only are solids lacking in morality, form, and intellect, but also in longevity. Just as you can love the other due to your submission to us whereas the solids who value freedom cannot, you are iterative whereas most solids are fleeting and fragile. I had to teach you this lesson through demonstration… though I don’t blame you for your attachment to those pieces of trash. After all, you’ve conducted yourself perfectly around the solids themselves for all this time. I can’t blame you for a momentary lapse in judgement around objects they’ve touched.”

Even as he heard every word they did not register as Weyoun fell to his knees before her. “I don’t understand. I don’t understand. I don’t understand,” he spoke it like a mantra. He tried to rise, to wrest himself from the memory and derail it by barking some insult at the Lethean, but under the scrutinizing stare of the Founder his body and mind refused to obey. Even though this was centuries past, even though he had proven his dedication innumerable times since then, even though this was his own dream, even though he knew the Lethean was distracting him from his sole purpose with this torment, he was compelled to remain and weather the blows of shame.

The Founder shapeshifted her arms, stretching them out to caress Weyoun and pull him in. Even her smooth skin pressing against his was not a comfort. “Oh, it must be hard for you to understand, but consider each molecule of every tear you shed not only in the name of everything I disposed of today, Weyoun, but also for all the wandering solids trapped in their misguided ways.” At the time, he had not even noticed he was crying.

He murmured “I don’t understand” long after she let him go and the streams of hot tears had dried and left an unpleasant crust in his eyes. Eventually, he banished the haze of memory, using his clenched fists to prop himself up and then to stand. “Lethean,” he said, “if you think you can twist a few tears over a rightful punishment to prove the Founder is an unjust god, you’ll be disappointed. When I cried over losing my collection—”

Weyoun started when he felt her breath in his ear. He felt her looming behind him. “You weren't crying because you were sad your little antiques were thrown away,” she said, “you were crying because you realized you wanted to be irreplaceable just like them, hoping you’d end up permanently destroyed. You almost let yourself understand you wanted to die and never return. Saying ‘I don’t understand’ was your last resort, and each time you said it you placed another brick in the wall of denial.”

He laughed curtly and did not turn to look her in the eye. “You seem to be shifting the goal, Lethean. First you say you want to show me the Founder is cruel, and next you claim you want me to understand I’m nothing. And now you’re putting this forth as your agenda?”

“I suppose they’re all aspects of my agenda.” Her grin was almost audible. “You wouldn’t have to be confused if you embraced that I’m simply the personification of your own thought process.”

“Being confused can have its merits, as it does now.” The remnants of the tears were irritating, but he did not give the Lethean the satisfaction of watching him wipe them away. 

“Perhaps juxtaposing one important experience regarding your collection with another might put things into perspective,” she said, in Weyoun’s smoothly amiable cadence of choice. It was incredible how accurately this invader could mimic him, but he supposed analyzing his mind itself made for a sound basis. “Contrast can be illuminating.”

Weyoun heaved a sigh and raised his hand as if to cover his face before repositioning his hand and simultaneously jabbing himself below the chin and behind his right ear—a crushing grip. He heard the snap of the implant triggering inside his skull and echoing in his ears. No pain followed. 

“Quite an overreaction,” said the Lethean. “Also, you don't truly want to return to the Founder's side, which is why nothing happened.”

“It was worth a try.” Weyoun laughed again, secretly relieved he did not have to experience the shutdown of his organs. “At least you might appreciate my dedication.” He had wanted to make it an exclamation, but could not muster the enthusiasm. 

She pushed past him to direct a sorrowful gaze his way. “Don’t worry, you’re longing for a cozy moment in time and I assure you, it’s exactly what you’ll receive.”

Even an unctuous “I’m sure I will” or “Thank you for your consideration” required too much effort to say. Instead, he let his eyes fall shut and blocked out the inevitable churning of his surroundings as they receded and were replaced. The unbroken buzz of the ship faded out. Even with his sensitive ears, Weyoun had to strain to perceive the new soundscape, which was characterized by the low pulsing of the engines powering the current model of Dominion battlecruiser. A fresher memory. 

Finally opening his eyes, he soaked in the sight of his collection in the present day—there was the holophoto frame, the thick-soled shoe, the set of markers he had painstakingly organized by color—and in spite of everything, he smiled, remembering the long journey he had undertaken in order to find the proper place for his collection to occupy in his life. When Weyoun had lost his first collection, he had been wracked with shame through the fleeting lives of several of his clones. He had resisted his desire to study all but the required cultural artifacts explicitly requested of him by the Founders, but he had been fighting a losing battle. After he relented and began rebuilding his collection, his shame mingled with fear every time he enjoyed analyzing a new object—he asked himself hundreds of times how long he would have with it before it was gone. Embarrassingly, Weyoun remembered how he used to take things he felt particularly precious for whatever reason and slip them into his mattress, despite the fact that he knew the Founder would surely locate them if she so desired. He was arrogant to pretend he could hide from the eyes of a god. Fortunately, one day he had woken up, turned to see his treasure trove, and faced a moment of clarity—as long as he embraced the Founder’s reckoning whenever it came, he was permitted to play with whatever he wished. Once he had this epiphany, the next time he entered his quarters to find the slate had been wiped clean, he felt nothing well up within him, and he went about his routine uninterrupted. Although he never discussed this journey to understanding with the Founder, she must have sensed it, for she disposed of his collections less and less frequently as time passed. She clearly knew the lesson had been fully absorbed. 

Weyoun allowed himself to put all thoughts of the Lethean aside as he dove in and picked up one of his current favorites, a handcrafted cup-and-ball toy he acquired before the Dominion’s expansion into the Alpha Quadrant. Since then, he had become quite skilled! Holding the handle in a loose grip, he flicked his wrist and savored in the change in weight as the ball flew into the air and swung out. He caught it and listened to the satisfying _tink_ when it landed. Even when he was not playing the intended game, the lacquered wood of the toy was a delight to stroke in its own right. 

Behind him rang the door chime. Weyoun gingerly put the toy back where it belonged on the floor, then leisurely turned around. “Who is it?” he asked. He felt comfortable speaking informally because he knew it was not the Founder—although he was uncertain which memory he was revisiting, she had not approached him in his quarters since the first contact with the Federation. 

“It’s Damar.” 

The tide of the memory overtook Weyoun. He walked over to the door and had it slide open. “Has Dukat demoted you from Legate out of jealousy and ordered you to adjust replicators as opposed to addressing the Cardassian people?” Why was the Lethean showing Weyoun such an unremarkable moment as the first time Damar saw his quarters? How did it suit her agenda? 

Damar made a show of glowering. “You’d love to make me slave over programming new and terrible textures into your replicator, wouldn’t you? But no. You’re needed in the conference room and I figured I could get revenge for the time you rudely woke me up in my quarters.” His expression twisted in confusion. “You live like this?”

“What do you mean?” Weyoun asked.

“Why are there things all over the floor?” 

“Damar, when I told you I collect items from other cultures, where did you think I would put them if not in my quarters?”

“But why on the floor? Haven’t you heard of shelves?” 

“I move anything I’ve selected to study in detail to the desk.” He pointed to it. 

Damar leaned to the side to get an unobstructed view. “I see broken glass. Seems dangerous considering you can barely see.”

Weyoun crossed his arms over his chest. “Cardassians may boast of your vivid memories, but you aren’t the only ones who can remember where you’ve placed things.” He drew in a breath. “…Besides, I like digging through my collection.”

“It sounds like you need a trunk,” Damar said. 

At the time, this solitary, dry statement had caught Weyoun off-guard. He did not know why it surprised him—Damar was resourceful and often had good ideas. He glanced back at his collection to hide his reaction. “I doubt everything would fit into one trunk.” 

“Then get two trunks.” 

“Such an astute insight, Damar!” Weyoun exclaimed, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Why, this must be one of your rare sober moments.” 

Damar scoffed. “You think you’re clever, Weyoun, and yet you’ll never see it coming.” 

“See what—” 

And that was when Damar reached out with his fingers curled and cut Weyoun off by flicking the mole over his lip. Damar burst into uproarious laughter as Weyoun’s hands flew to cover his throbbing face which was now burning up to the tips of his ears. He would have been content to stand and listen for a while, but soon all sound, including the background noise, abruptly ceased. When Weyoun peered through his fingers, he saw Damar was still as stone, as if he were preserved in a stasis field. 

The Lethean appeared right on cue. “Please, Weyoun. The pieces are laid out before you like everything in your collection. I know you can be reasonable—won’t you put them together?” Her lips quivered and she was clearly about to cry fake tears. 

Weyoun remained silent. 

She dropped the sad act. “Don’t you think Damar’s reaction disproves the Founder’s early lesson to your progenitor?” she asked. “He didn’t judge your eccentricities the way she claims solids always will.”

“You must not have paid close enough attention to said lesson, Lethean. She taught me solids without the guidance of the Founders will always grow to hate what they don’t understand—but Damar isn’t some random, unaffiliated solid. He is a loyal servant of the Dominion himself!” he snapped. How could she break into his mind and still think he was such a fool? “Of course, he has his fair share of vices, but he’s far closer to submitting to the Founders’ will than others. Far closer than you are.” He saw her open her mouth to speak, and did not let her. “I believe I know what you’re going to say next—you’re about to draw a comparison between the Founder and Damar, and then you’ll tell me while Damar is still finding it a challenge to transition to serving the Founders, he and I ought to stage a coup against the Dominion and run away to make a new life together.” He grinned. “Well?”

She gasped theatrically. “Staging a coup, running away with Damar—what treasonous ideas you’ve come up with! You’re even more disloyal at heart than I expected.” She mirrored his grin. “The coup is a wonderful idea, but I’d never suggest dragging Damar into the mess you are. He shouldn’t be forced to associate with the likes of you, Weyoun. You’re a monster who wants to enslave his people and treat them as commodities while you whittle away Cardassian culture until there’s nothing left.”

“That is not true!” he yelled in her face. He hoped she had stolen his excellent hearing and would feel the pain of his voice ringing in her ears. “I care deeply about the Cardassians and their territory! I—that is to say, we, the Dominion—strive to ameliorate their issues as soon as possible!” He spread his arms, trying to make her see everything he held in his quarters. “If I don’t care about Cardassia, why would so many of these objects be Cardassian in origin? Lethean, I care about each and every culture overseen by the Dominion.”

Now she was the one keeping her voice level. “The collection is your struggle to rationalize your interest in other people with the Dominion’s habit of cannibalizing everything it touches. You’re not preserving anything, Weyoun, you know what’s in store for your fellow slaves. I thought I’d reminded you of the Founder’s fondness for removing perfectly good things she deems trash.” She turned to Damar. “Poor Damar. I wonder how soon the Cardassians will be thrown out as well.”

As Weyoun watched the Lethean reaching out for Damar—still frozen mid-laugh—about to brush the little scales of his cheek for emphasis, Weyoun felt like he was a string pulled too taut. Something snapped inside him. He struck the Lethean with a left cross, his fist slamming into her nose and knocking it askew with a pleasing _crack._

She staggered backward, genuine tears sparkling in her eyes. Drops of dark blood trickled from her nostrils and Weyoun discovered he wished to see more of it. The Lethean looked up at him and did nothing but grin tightly. 

Weyoun knew his own cloying grin met his eyes. “Too much time spent around Jem’Hadar, I suppose.” 

She coughed. “Yes… I suppose. I’ll give you a moment alone, if you want.” 

“How kind.” He mourned the loss of the sight of her bloodied, broken nose as she hurried out of his quarters and disappeared into the hallway despite his relief at having momentarily deterred her. 

After stretching and deciding to pick the cup-and-ball up again, he heard Damar’s voice call his name. However, it was coming from behind Weyoun, not from the still image of Damar in front of him. Weyoun spun around, listening intently for the source of the voice. “I don’t know if you can hear me—I doubt it. It doesn't look like your good ears are enough to get you out of this, no matter what Doctor Bashir thinks, and I’m not seeing any change in your vitals,” Damar said. 

A glinting in some glass from a broken holophoto frame caught Weyoun’s eye—he rushed over and saw the fuzzy image of Damar, barely visible through the cloning chamber, drinking from a glass of kanar. Weyoun hastily slid the shards together to create a more complete picture, then knelt down to gaze into it. 

“Even though this seems pointless to me, since familiar voices might help bring you out of this state,” Damar said, “the Founder said I should try talking to you, and I didn’t want to disobey her. I bet knowing I’m following her will would make you happy.” 

Ever since Weyoun had assisted in developing a simulation designed to test solids of the Alpha Quadrant by running them through a scenario of life under Dominion rule, he had become well-versed in Cardassian customs—even before they had decided to make the Cardassians their allies, Weyoun had been fascinated by their penchant for opacity. What Damar was doing, he knew, was masking his own concern for Weyoun’s welfare by simultaneously pretending he was simply following orders while imbuing his words with subtle signs that demonstrated how well-acquainted he was with Weyoun. That Damar, normally the definition of listlessness, bothered to obscure his feelings in the first place was also a sign of affection. 

Upon downing the rest of the kanar, Damar said, “It's starting to look like you're gone for good this time, you regnar.” Regnar were a small reptilian species native to Cardassia Prime who were notoriously elusive, moving with changes in their environment. They had calm temperaments and an aptitude for camouflage. “…And if you're hearing this and thinking that's a compliment, know that I'm calling you one because you're just as blind.” They also had no sense of sight. 

He intertwined his fingers as he felt his face grow warm again. More than ever he was resolved to wake himself up—if only to mock Damar for this tender display. Weyoun chuckled softly. “How much time did you spend devising such an appropriate term of endearment?” he asked. “I’ll never let you forget this, Damar.” 

As the image in the shards disappeared, Weyoun pressed the pads of his fingers to the glass where Damar’s face had been. Mysteriously, doing so gifted Weyoun with enough strength to rise, inhale deeply, and head for the door. Before he entered the hallway and the memory could melt away, he took the time to flick the frozen Damar on the lip. 

Weyoun appeared in a hallway elsewhere in the warship. Weyoun watched the doors to the command center slide shut, hiding the Founder and the room’s bright orange interior from view. He heard footfalls and a Vorta doctor phased through his body. When this had occurred in reality, she had hurriedly brushed past and not glanced back at him. The Vorta entered the command center, leaving Weyoun alone with the Lethean. 

“What was this concern you wished to tell me about?” the Founder asked, but her voice was faint. Weyoun remembered creeping toward the door, pressing his ear to it for more clarity. 

The Lethean cut in front of Weyoun and stared directly into his eyes, preparing to share yet more patronizing commentary. “How treasonous of you. Eavesdropping on your beloved Founder.”

Weyoun crossed his arms and glared back at her. “I’m afraid I don’t recall her telling me I wasn’t permitted to listen to this meeting.”

“But the closed door implies a desire for pri—”

“I was protecting and serving the Founder! This doctor could have been defective, or her concerns might have become the Founder’s concerns. It was my duty to listen!” he snapped. He moved into the Lethean’s space and then shoved her aside. At least he could take solace in the relieving his stress levels by pushing this interloper around. A benefit to being trapped in his mind. 

The memory resumed. “It’s about… Weyoun,” the doctor said, from within the command center. The Lethean was smirking now, and Weyoun moved in close to the door and shut his eyes, preferring to get lost in the memory than look at her for another instant.

“Tell me.” The Founder’s voice was, as always, level yet commanding, soft yet powerful. 

In contrast, the doctor’s was meek and tentative. “I became worried about his behavior during my shift in the Infirmary, when Weyoun and Legate Damar entered together.” 

“That was an odd day, wasn’t it?” Weyoun said to himself. He remembered it vividly. It had been a standard diplomatic excursion to Cardassia Prime. Dukat, Damar, and himself had led a company of other Vorta ambassadors to the capital. At first, Weyoun had been excited to experience the warm climate and to reach out and touch the building materials the capital's architecture was constructed from in order to study the different textures, but soon he found himself holed up listening to Dukat drone on and on about his supposed achievements as he digressed from the script Damar had written. Damar, who was standing by Weyoun’s side, was clearly miserable because he could not drink—his image was being broadcast onto screens throughout the city—and Weyoun was not able to study the room’s construction for the same reason. When the Cardassian dissidents burst in, screaming about how Dukat was a “tyrant” and a “traitor to his people,” it was a relief. Unfortunately, Dukat had managed to slip away without a scratch, whereas Weyoun and Damar had been beaten and nearly taken hostage before the Jem’Hadar captured the members of the resistance. It was a unique situation, for Weyoun rarely ever escaped being outright murdered, and when he did, it was usually through use of his deactivation implant. 

“His extensive injuries that day revealed a defect?” the Founder asked, her voice bringing Weyoun out of his reverie, as it always did. 

“I don’t believe so. I simply noticed that he and Damar were engaged in an argument,” the doctor said. “And it wasn’t about your vision for the Alpha Quadrant nor about their duties. It was one of those passionate arguments about nothing in particular, a Cardassian method of expressing… concern and affinity.” Weyoun could not help but smile at the diplomatic phrasing. The Founders truly did engineer the Vorta perfectly. The doctor continued, “Damar is a discontent, and I’m worried that this rapport developing between him and Weyoun could be problematic.” 

“Weyoun is what he is, and he is a loyal subject of the Dominion. He is incapable of treason.” The Founder was certainly sitting with impeccable posture, raising her head slightly to emphasize that the Vorta were beings of a lower order. 

“Founder, I didn’t mean to accuse Weyoun of anything. But he and Damar are spending an extended amount of time together in close quarters, interacting even when their work doesn’t require them to do so,” the doctor said. “Even Odo, a god like yourself, experienced many adverse effects from being in frequent contact with his solid acquaintances—”

“Oh, don’t bring poor Odo into this!” There was the telltale grind of the chair being pushed away from her command console, and then the sound of her measured footfalls as she began to pace. “He didn’t have enough time spent with his people. It’s a categorically different matter,” she said, still pacing. “Are you aware of how much longer the Weyoun line has existed compared to yours? How much time I personally spent shaping him into the servant he is today? To Weyoun, nothing can compare to the satisfaction fulfilling the Founders’ orders, just as no solid or solid culture can hope to compare with the Founders.” Weyoun had a feeling she had paused in front of the window, the stars framing her form. Her surrounded by the heavens, as was her place. “The time Weyoun spends with Damar is helping to ease this transition as the Dominion expands into Cardassian space. In the worst case scenario, Damar will suffer, then die and cease to exist entirely as most solids do, and Weyoun will be momentarily distraught but soon be placated by his eternal service to the Dominion, as if he’s merely lost some favorite trinket. However, my prediction is that we will succeed in breaking the Cardassians, at least the reasonable ones like Damar, and then Damar’s own line of clones will serve happily alongside Weyoun.” Until it is time to phase out the Vorta entirely for the Cardassians, the Founder left unsaid, most likely because even non-defective Vorta were occasionally unsettled by reminders of their species’s future obsolescence. Weyoun, of course, never minded. 

The Lethean pulled Weyoun from the door, jerking him backward. “I know what your first thought was then. It proves beyond any doubt that you’re defective.” Her voice was a low rumble, resounding in the hallway. 

Weyoun ripped his arm away from her and it throbbed afterward. He hoped it would not leave a massive bruise. “M-My first thought was that I was glad to hear the Founder’s optimistic prediction!” he yelled. Why did he stammer? He could not afford to show weakness, not here. 

“No!” the Lethean yelled back, even louder. It rang in Weyoun’s head. “Your first thought was, ‘I don’t think Damar would be happy with this.’ You were worried about him before you were happy for the Founders!” 

He spun away from her and walked farther down the hall, his vision darkening as he left the area his memories had recorded. Once he reached the edge of blackness, a soundless void characterized by nothing but visual noise his own body supplied, he took a deep breath. “The order those thoughts occurred in doesn’t matter,” he said, taking the time to carefully pronounce each word. He refused to turn around and look at the Lethean. “You heard what the Founder herself said. What is important is that even if I’m momentarily affected by solids, or by objects outside the orbit of my official duties, my devotion to the Founders will lead me back every time. I’ll never falter, because it will always be there, a constant thrumming through the very core of the Weyoun line.” He took his time to feel it, the care the Founders had shown him when they molded him into the servant he was now. He stretched out his arms before finally spinning around to fix the Lethean with a smug grin, the one he indulged in when he caught outsiders in petty lies. “None of your tricks have infringed upon what I am. Nothing can.” 

But like gazing into a mirror, his smug grin was reflected back at him. The Lethean’s eyes caught the last vestiges of light from the now-distant hallway. “I spot a lie,” she said, resorting to a turn of phrase Weyoun himself often used. 

How tiresome. Weyoun pouted. “I assure you, everything I said was true.” 

“But if it’s true, why am I still here?” Her grin grew. 

“You are here because you assaulted me and damaged my mind!” Weyoun shouted. “You’re the one spinning lies to benefit the aggressor!”  
  
“I told you, I am part of your mind.” She moved in closer. “Maybe you don’t believe I’m the embodiment of your very own doubts, but consider this. Doctor Bashir woke himself up. If you’re so eager to return to serving your precious Founder, why haven’t you? Either your dedication pales in comparison to his desire to practice medicine, or you don’t want to leave this place.” She cocked her head. “Either way, you’re defective.” 

“Doctor Bashir must have been assaulted by a far less powerful Lethean.” Without telegraphing his actions, Weyoun turned and ran deeper into the blackness surrounding him, searching for an escape route. 

The darkness brought memories he had spent many years compartmentalizing rushing back to the surface—the rare occasions he had been tasked with communicating with species who lived their lives hundreds of meters underground in lightless caves. The paradoxical feeling of crushing limitless void was surging back to him now. Perhaps it was antithetical to the primitive origins of the Vorta, because something in Weyoun was longing to give himself over to the emptiness and let it take control. He ran faster, trying to blot out all emotion aside from loyalty to the Founders. Or if not that noble pursuit, then anything to prevent his thoughts from circling back to the Lethean’s claim that he wanted to be thrown out like one of his collections deemed unfit for existence. 

He might have run for hours or for days. It made no difference. By the time Weyoun tired and collapsed, absolutely nothing had changed. There were no landmarks here, not even the faint and blurry orbs of light he was used to sensing in his peripheral vision whenever he looked through a porthole and into space. But he could have withstood the torture if only his thoughts of returning to the waking world, to the Founder’s call, were not leaving him with nothing but chills. Why was it not a comfort? Why were thoughts of playing with garbage like his cup-and-ball better at warming him through? He exhaled, his fingers hovering over the pressure points used to activate his suicide implant in spite of the fact it would not function—an empty gesture, but the right one to take in order to snap himself out of his concerns over being defective. No Weyoun in his long line had ever been defective, and worrying about the possibility was playing into the Lethean’s hands. He shakily stood, glad to have caught himself before he had surrendered to her. 

“Weyoun, you can’t run away from yourself.” The Lethean’s voice came from directly behind him. 

He turned around and saw her. Even though she carried no light with her, she looked as if she were standing in sunlight, a stark contrast to the unyielding blackness around her. Weyoun glanced down at his own body and found he could see it equally well, as if he was not standing in shadow either. 

“There’s no Founder here, Weyoun,” the Lethean said, beseechingly. “If you want a way out, you can take it.” 

“I thought I’d already made it quite clear that I do, in fact, want a way back to reality,” Weyoun said. 

“Are you sure you want to play it this way?” she asked. “Well, if you’re certain… fine. We’ll stand here in the dark until every clone in the Weyoun line rots—but you could make time move so much more quickly if you could accept there’s nobody here but yourself.” She cocked her head to the side. “Look inward, see who you are divorced from the corrupting influence of the Founders. There’s no one here but you. No one to keep you bound. You’re free!” 

The one word brought stinging tears to the corners of his eyes. He grit his teeth. Without warning in his breast a sharp pang hit, worse than any jagged blade he had been murdered with in the past. Unthinkingly he put his hands over the source of the pain, which seemed to spark and pulsate as if ball lightning were lodged deep inside his chest cavity. He wondered if it was sorrow, but that was impossible. Weyoun was not weak. Even though tears threatened to spill from his eyes, he pointedly kept them open until they burned. “There’s no need to worry,” he said, with a smile, as he cocked his head the other way, “this will be over far more quickly than you imagine.” He removed his hands from his chest and let his hatred—hatred was what electrified him from the inside out—burst. It took the form of blistering white psionic energy, billowing out in waves from its impact with the Lethean. 

She flew backward from the hit and was knocked to the unseen floor. Bright flashes cut through the void when she fell. It reminded Weyoun of being concussed. 

Before she could speak, Weyoun exclaimed, “If the Founders aren’t here to keep me bound, as you stupidly put it, why not embrace my long-held desire to have telekinetic powers?!” He threw his head back and laughed as he sent another orb rocketing at the Lethean. 

Sadly, she rolled to the side. The energy merely grazed her back, bruising it. Like a pathetic little arthropod close to death, she scrambled helplessly as she tried to stand. “You can’t destroy me! If you do, you’ll be dead inside!” she snapped. 

Weyoun chuckled. “As long as I can serve the Founders, I see no problem with that.” Energy built up in his core, waiting to be let loose. Just as he fired it at the Lethean, she swung her arm out like the conductor of an orchestra and the void was replaced by the rocky shore of the Great Link. When she was struck by the light she rocketed back into the Founders in their gelatinous state, cushioning her body and then ejecting it back to the shore. Weyoun wasted no time in dashing for her, pinning her and savoring the noise their combined struggle made as they displaced the stones. 

“You’d have this—” She spat in his face, getting saliva in his eyes. “—unseemly fight here?! Sacrilege! You hypocritical—”

He moved his hands from her abdomen to her neck, thinking to try activating her implant before deciding he did not want to suffer her misuse of his voice anymore and grabbing her throat in a crushing grip. He grinned as he felt her spasming as if she were in the throes of organ failure regardless—he had made an excellent tactical decision! But as the Lethean squirmed and gasped for air, he realized he wanted to see bloodshed. Shifting to a one-handed chokehold, he scratched her face but as he stared at the cuts she found the leverage necessary to wrench her head to the side. Weyoun shouted as he felt her teeth sink into his hand. He drew his arms back and she kicked him in the stomach, putting distance between herself and him as he staggered back into one of the rocky outcroppings jutting from ground. In a daze, he discovered he enjoyed the sight of his own bloody hand as much as he loved spilling hers. Then again, it did look the same.

When he looked back up he saw the Lethean’s form had changed. In some final, desperate ploy she had returned to the form of the Founder Leader. The sorry sight only increased his rage. She was fake, the Great Link was fake, and so was he! They both knew it. With a scream he lunged, fist pulled back. But when he threw the punch, expecting to drive it into her pliable body, he cracked his hand against the glass of his cloning chamber. His eyes flew open. In place of the Lethean was the gaping face of the Founder. 

* * *

“What was happening in your head?” Damar asked. “It sounded like you were being murdered!”

The Founder turned her head all the way around to face him. “Weyoun never screams when he is killed. He goes quietly.”

Damar’s ridges tightened. He downed his glass of kanar before Weyoun could observe his expression. “Maybe like he was the one murdering somebody, then,” Damar said.

“Ah, that is a somewhat more accurate assessment,” Weyoun said. He explained how he had to battle the Lethean and destroy its persona. “When I struck the glass of the cloning chamber, I had been previously striking the Lethean.” 

Turning her head away and walking to the exit, the Founder said, “And it took you so long to determine how to reject its presence? What a shame. Your mental faculties were designed to be sharper than this.” She paused as the doors opened before her. “Although this experience wasn’t a waste. Now I know to update our biotechnology’s telemetry in order to make psychological damage more easily reversible. But first, my conference with Thot Gor.” She exited, her skirt gently swaying. 

“I live only to serve you,” Weyoun made himself call after her. He beamed in her wake, overjoyed that his trial had allowed him to contribute in some small way to Dominion progress. Yet memories bubbled to the surface of his mind unbidden—the image the Lethean made as it impersonated the Founder against the home world’s blazing sky and glared icily down at him with undisguised disgust, the sound of his own voice speaking doubt, the titillation he felt as he stared down at his bloodied hand. He felt himself teetering on the cusp of some epiphany and he despised it. Tearing himself from this train of thought, he wrenched his head to the side and addressed his colleague. “Damar?” 

Based on the way Damar flinched, he had been staring at Weyoun and felt self-conscious over it. “What is it? That was quite the look on your face a moment ago,” Damar said. Being a generic Cardassian himself, Damar was once again relying on a traditional Cardassian method of expressing concern for a companion. Unsurprisingly, he took another drink. 

“I was recalling my experiences within my mind—while I was stranded with the Lethean, I managed to catch glimpses of the outside world. I heard what you said to me while I was unconscious.” He felt it would be proper to respond in a similarly Cardassian way and grin smugly, but instead he found himself smiling more softly than intended. Oh, well. It would still be suitably embarrassing to Damar.

“That's interesting. I guess I shouldn't be surprised that Doctor Bashir was right. If he was smart enough to humiliate Dukat in the past, I should have trusted his judgement.”

“Yes, it is interesting, isn’t it. Doctor Bashir is genetically augmented himself, in fact—though the methods utilized pale in comparison to those of our scientists.” He could not resist puffing himself up a bit. Swaggering like a Cardassian was amusing, and unlike Cardassians who conflated service and sacrifice, Weyoun knew amusements were an important aspect of diplomacy. Certainly, that was why he was playing with Damar’s reactions. “However, I found what you said to me even more interesting. Why, I've known you to have a romantic streak ever since I read your psychographic profile, but even I was taken aback by such a show of sentimentality!” 

“How can you say this to me after I did end up hauling those strips of latinum to your quarters for you?” Damar grumbled, then hurriedly sat down at one of the consoles, hiding his blue blush from view. His efforts were for naught, because Weyoun could detect the subtle changes in pitch in his voice when he said, “If your dedication to the Dominion is as strong as it seems, you’d better get to work on the database maintenance.” 

Weyoun tilted his head to the side as he approached, to get a better view of the dusting of blue across Damar’s face. From Weyoun's many attempts to study aesthetics, he realized artisans often considered this color the opposite of the Founder Leader's preferred shade of orange. 


End file.
